Tea for Two, Part II: Sacrifices
by Haydee
Summary: Predictions of Timothy Drake's future unfold... with some unexpected twists.


  
Alfred arranged the bottles carefully in alphabetical order on the stainless  
steel medicine tray. Everything in the batcave, it seemed, was stainless steel;  
Batman insisted upon it, apparently because of something having to do with the  
electrical equipment, or the computers, or... he just didn't think it  
appropriate for the Dark Knight of Gotham City to be eating off pink and blue  
china. The old man sighed faintly. Not that it really mattered to him...  
  
From the corner, there came a faint moan. The tidy butler set the last bottle  
in place and hurried quickly to the side of the stainless steel cot, covered for  
the moment with a white cloth rather stained with blood and other obnoxious  
fluids which would no doubt have to be sanitized sooner or later. The boy, the  
child, was lying in the middle of it all, almost without a stitch of clothing,  
although he had been prudent enough to leave a good deal of his shorts and  
tights attached. As for the rest--  
  
The child moaned again, fainly, and groped at the air.  
  
"Master Timothy--"  
  
"Alfred?" his voice rasped, echoing thinly in the empty chamber. Exhausted, his  
hands fell limply again to his sides. "Alfred?" he whispered again. "Where am  
I--?"  
  
The elderly butler placed a gentle hand upon the boy's chest, or rather on the  
bandages that covered his chest, holding him down. "Yes, sir. At the moment  
you're on an operating table in the cave; please lie still."  
  
He shifted restlessly, feverish in spite of the medication the butler had  
injected. It would be a while before he overcame it, if he did at all...  
"Alfred, I--" he stopped suddenly, his chest heaving, head turning from side to  
side as if in search, although with the bandages across his eyes it was quite  
useless. Indeed, even without the bandages... "Oh my God, Bruce--!"  
  
Alfred pressed a little harder, aware that he was causing the boy a good deal  
of pain, but feeling that it was in Timothy's better intrest to remain lying  
down. "Master Bruce is reclining quite safely in his bed upstairs, sir. To my  
knowledge he has not yet regained consciousness, but I have every expectation of  
finding him awake and coherent when I return upstairs."  
  
The boy's agitated movements settled, and his chest drew even, measured  
breaths, though still rasping. That was because of the injury to his lungs.  
Searing. "Oh," he murmured. "Good, good..." he stopped again, his own  
consciousness suddenly focusing, and put a hand out to grip the old man's arm.  
"It's-- dark," he whispered. "But-- strange. Nothing at all... nothing... It--  
it's happened, hasn't it?"  
  
Alfred pressed his lips together tightly and forced his voice to be firm,  
certain. "It-- does appear that way, Master Timothy. Nevertheless, we shan't  
give up hope, not in the least."  
  
Timothy's chest rose and fell tremulously, and he coughed, still recooperating  
from the ash and fire that had scorched his lungs. "As-- as long as Bruce is  
okay," he whispered, letting his hand fall away from Alfred. "As long as he's  
okay..."  
  
***  
  
Alfred bent over his Master's lap, spreading a napkin to catch the crumbs he  
knew were to fall. Although, thus far, Bruce hadn't touched his meal. "Sir," he  
begged, "please take some--"  
  
Bruce blinked groggily, not quite come to his senses, though quite lucid enough  
to grab Alfred by the lapels and jerk him downward sharply. "Is he--?" he  
demanded, hoarsely.  
  
Alfred brushed him off easily, his hands falling away limply at the old man's  
touch. "Awake sir, yes. Please, take a bit of broth, you're quite delerious." He  
motioned to the bowl and turned away the next moment, beginning to dust the  
shelves above the dresser.  
  
"I--" Bruce glanced about the room, blinking again, squinting into the light.  
He was, as always when he had been drugged, surly and impatient. He was not a  
man who enjoyed being incapacitated, and on a subconscious level the fact that  
Alfred had put him out irked him beyond all imagination. "Where am I? And what--  
it feels--" he pulled aside the sheets and glimpsed reality. "Oh," he rumbled,  
falling back into the pillows at his back. Suddenly he felt very tired. "Oh  
yes..."  
  
"Sir..." Alfred turned and judged the measure of the situation immediately.  
Bruce lay sunken into the silk sheets, a deep frown in place, and stared into  
nothingness. The old butler's voice drifted off. This was a time to say nothing.  
He went back to dusting.  
  
After a moment, Bruce sat forward again, snatched a spoon, and ate viciously.  
"Leave. Tend the boy," he snapped. "I don't need you."  
  
Alfred faced him, bearing a solemn, worry-lined face. It wasn't much changed  
from his usual expression, as years of the same had worn the lines well, and if  
anything they only looked a little deeper, more resigned. He spoke quietly. "If  
you please, sir, I've given him a mild sedative. He'll sleep through the worst  
of it, I hope. It looks indeed as though he shall pull through."  
  
Bruce glanced up from his soup, eyeing him critically. "What the hell are you  
talking about?" he demanded. He was still drugged. Usually Bruce didn't swear  
unless he was drugged.  
  
Alfred blinked and tried to keep this in mind. "Why-- don't you remember, sir?"  
  
"Don't play games with me. I must have passed out on the way back."  
  
The old gentleman was silent for a moment, considering. "You did indeed, sir,"  
he confirmed gently. "Nevertheless, after I had stayed the bleeding, I roused  
you, and you spent fifteen rather grueling hours attempting to save young  
Timothy's eyes."  
  
Perhaps he had hoped it was a dream, a half-waking nightmare induced by pain  
and an astonishing lack of blood to the brain. He still didn't remember it  
clearly; he had forced himself to concentrate, put his body into a kind of  
trance where all else was blocked out... but had had hoped it had been a dream.  
Bruce Wayne, lacking the strength to fling his breakfast tray across the room,  
merely swept it onto the floor beside the bed. "Damn," he swore fervently, among  
other things. "Damn."  
  
Alfred stood pensively at the end of the bed, not yet moving to pick up the  
tray and its upended contents. "Now, sir, perhaps I should examine your--"  
  
"Get out!" he roared.  
  
Alfred stood his ground, holding himself firm as if in the face of a strong  
blast of wind. "I shall, sir," he said, quite calmly, quite cooly, "for the  
moment. Please keep in mind, however, that I shall have to look after your  
bandages at some point during the day, or you will most certainly contract an  
infection-- if that is not already the case. It needs to be done, and I shall do  
it, sir, regardless of your protests. You are in no position to prevent me, so  
do please consider a peaceable approach to the matter."  
  
Bruce eyed him narrowly. "Get out," he hissed.  
  
"Going, sir."  
  
***  
  
Alfred had gagued the hour of Timothy's revival correctly, and arrived just as  
he was waking again, somewhat more coherent now than before. This time, he  
didn't struggle to move, but simply lay upon the cool surface of the table, in  
pain.  
  
"Shall I give you a bit of morphine, sir?" asked Alfred quietly, his voice  
echoing in soft murmurs about the chamber.  
  
Timothy stretched out an arm, trembling now that he could feel it--  
everything-- throbbing, searing pain-- nothing to describe it at all, really...  
He felt as Alfred inserted the needle, and a moment later there was relief; a  
little, anyway. "I didn't think it would hurt so much," he whispered. "And I  
didn't know--" he stopped there, hating to complete his thought. He hadn't  
thought that it would be any more than his face, than what he had seen. He had  
assumed... but he shouldn't have. His arms, chest, hands, all of it... But it  
didn't matter. It didn't mean if he had to choose again he wouldn't do it. Did  
it? No. No.  
  
"Is it abated, sir?"  
  
Timothy hadn't been listening. "Huh?" he asked, his voice grating.  
  
"The pain, sir. Is it lessened?"  
  
"Oh. Yeah, a little. It's better. Thanks."  
  
Alfred turned to the table, where a clean white sheet was already waiting, neat  
and folded. "My apologies, sir..." he began hesitantly. "I shall have to ask you  
to rise. Matters of cleanliness demand that your bedding be changed."  
  
Timothy chuckled softly and coughed. "Yeah," he whispered. "I can smell it."  
  
"Shall I guide you, sir? --Please be cautious, you've got an IV in your left  
forearm."  
  
The boy paused. He couldn't feel the needle. "Just-- tell me where to put my  
hands and feet," he said. Even his skin, touching the table, was excruciating.  
He didn't think he could stand having Alfred touch him as well. It was hard not  
to cry out, yell, or something, when he sat up. Pulling away from the sheet--  
again, pain. But he was silent, gritting his teeth and grunting slightly. Alfred  
directed him well, holding aside the line of fluid to his arm, and after a  
moment he stood apart in darkness, listening as the old man took away the old  
and replaced it with the new. He stood straight, arms held out away from his  
body a little, and after a moment, it was nearly comfortable. He could breathe  
without catching his breath, anyway.  
  
"I've finished, Master Timothy. Would you prefer to--?"  
  
"I-- think I'll just stand for a while, Alfred," he said. "If you don't mind."  
  
"Of course, sir. Do you require anything? A little water, perhaps?"  
  
Timothy realized suddenly that he was more dehydrated than he had ever been in  
his life. "Yes, yeah, please."  
  
Alfred filled a stainless steel cup with a bit of tap water and went to the  
boy, who was now standing awkwardly to one side of the exam table, facing the  
wall. "Ah," he said delicately, "if you would turn around, sir... yes, quite.  
Shall I just hold it to your lips?"  
  
The young man smiled. At least that didn't hurt. "Yeah. Feels kinda silly,  
but..."  
  
"Nonsense, sir. Practicality." He let the boy sip a little from the cup, but  
took it away before he gulped more than his stomach could bear.  
  
He continued to grin. "Alfred, you're the best."  
  
"Well, I shouldn't put it quite so bluntly myself..."  
  
Timothy laughed. Then he started to cry. Only somehow he couldn't, and it all  
got stopped up somewhere along the way and built up but it had to come out, it  
just had to-- and he choked, and then he sneezed, several times in a row, which  
seemed to relieve the pressure, but not really.  
  
"Sir--?"  
  
Timothy sneezed again. "Wish--" he hiccoughed, "wish I could see your face when  
you said that."  
  
Alfred understood, suddenly, what was happening, and stepped forward quickly,  
putting his hands on either side of the boy's face, the only whole, untouched  
skin left on his upper body. "Oh, Timothy," he murmured. "My dear boy... my  
dear, dear boy..."  
  
After some great time, the sneezes became a little more infrequent, and the boy  
slipped away from the kind old butler's touch, bowing his head. "So... what's  
the story?" he asked after a moment, struggling to control his quiet voice.  
  
"You've sustained second degree burns on thirty percent of your body, sir. Skin  
grafts might have been a possibility, but I judged, correctly it seems, that  
your body would suffer less shock without such a procedure. You have been  
unconscious for fully five days now."  
  
He turned slightly to face the old man's voice. "But when I woke up before, you  
said Bruce was still..."  
  
"Your last consciousness was four days ago, sir. The master is quite... lucid  
at this point."  
  
Timothy caught his tone. "And giving you hell?" he guessed.  
  
"Typically, Master Bruce does not take any setback particularly well," the old  
man replied in his usual roundabout manner.  
  
The boy was quiet, and Alfred went back to tidying.  
  
"Doesn't seem real," he half-whispered a while later. He still stood where  
Alfred had put him, arms out from his sides.  
  
Alfred turned. "Sir?"  
  
"I dunno... it was pretty easy to choose, beforehand. Now... just doesn't seem  
real, you know? Like it's not happening."  
  
The butler crossed back to Timothy's side, wishing he could put a hand on the  
boy's arm but not wanting to risk infection. Timothy didn't know, of course, but  
they were both in a sheeted-off corner of the cave, to prevent air currents, and  
the portable heater was controlling the temperature for maximum comfort and  
minimum contamination. Alfred had abandoned his traditional garb for a  
sterilized white lab suit and a facemask, and although at the moment he wasn't  
wearing gloves, his hands had been washed with sterilizing soap. Timothy  
wouldn't be able to leave the small enclosure for another week, at least. Alfred  
pursed his lips. "It seems," he considered finally, "that this is hardly the  
time to begin to worry about such things. That will come later; for now, you  
must concentrate on healing, sir."  
  
Timothy sneezed once, but held the next back and was all right. "Yeah," he said  
softly. "I guess so." He realized suddenly that he was very tired, and he didn't  
think he could hold out his arms any more. "Alfred, do you think..."  
  
"Of course, sir," the butler replied immediately. "Just to your left-- yes, a  
little more. Back a bit. All right. Sit-- there."  
  
The boy drew in a sharp breath of pain as his hand knocked the side of the  
table. But he would have to use his hands to sit-- He sighed slightly. "I--  
think I'll just stand a little longer," he said, and resumed his former  
position.  
  
But Alfred kept a close watch on the boy, and soon enough saw that his arms  
were beginning to tremble from the strain, and that his knees were a little  
wobbly. "Sir, if I may suggest-- it will be less painful in the long run to  
endure the agony of lying down, rather than to collapse..."  
  
Timothy swallowed. "I know," he said. "But..."  
  
Alfred considered briefly, and finally decided that the benefits outweighed the  
downside of giving the boy medication. "If you could do it quickly, Master  
Timothy, I might administer a bit more sedative..."  
  
"Yeah-- yeah, do that," he agreed quickly. "Are you ready?" he didn't think he  
could stand up any more, and in fact his knees were giving way--  
  
"One moment-- yes, sir, quite ready." His voice was closer.  
  
Timothy felt the table with the back of his leg. Then he sat. Then he lay down,  
and ground his teeth together, taking short, pained little breaths. Then the  
needle must have gone in, because he felt warm all over...  
  
But there was something--  
  
"Alfred--!"  
  
The butler leaned over the boy, pained to see as he stretched out his  
flame-scorched fingers. "What is it, Master Timothy?" he asked.  
  
"Dad..."  
  
But he was gone.  
  
"Rest, dear boy," murmured Alfred, and started upstairs.  
  
"Well?" demanded Bruce, about ten minutes after the butler had walked into his  
bedroom and begun to silently attend to things. He slammed the paper down on his  
lap, sending several sheets flying onto the floor to rest beside the previously  
abandoned advertisements.  
  
Alfred turned to face the cold, pointed eyes. "What is it, sir?"  
  
"You know damn well what 'it' is. Tim."  
  
"What about him, sir?" Alfred asked cooly.  
  
Bruce struggled against his own wrath, holding the paper back up in front of  
his face and attempting, for his part, to divert his attention to the financial  
section. It didn't work. His temper, usually under wraps even when he was  
privately raging, was worn thin with medication he had refused to take and  
examinations he didn't need. After a moment he flung away the remains of the  
Times. "How is he?" he rumbled dangerously.  
  
"Oh," Alfred said, pretending he hadn't known exactly what the master was  
getting at. "Yes. As I said before, quite well, considering. He came round for  
quite a while this afternoon, and even got up for a bit. I believe he is doing  
rather well, considering the damage he has sustained."  
  
Bruce bit the inside of his lip. Hard. It bled, but he sucked it away fiercely  
and Alfred didn't see. "How-- bad is it?" he asked finally, with difficulty.  
  
Alfred blinked at him, silently.  
  
Bruce looked away. "Damn," he said.  
  
"There's something else, sir-- his father has been calling. I've continued the  
ruse of Timothy's vacation with you in the Alps-- that you seem to have been  
snowed in-- but I don't believe it will hold up for much longer."  
  
Bruce grunted noncommittally.  
  
"What shall I tell him, sir?"  
  
He bit on the inside of his lip some more. "Tell him Timothy has been injured,"  
he announced gruffly, efficently. "That he's alive-- but injured. He's in a  
hospital in Paris now. How many days before he can--?"  
  
"Three at the least, sir, before he's fit to come out of that horrid tent. Even  
then..."  
  
"Then tell him they want to keep him overnight, but that he'll be returning  
within three days."  
  
"Yes, sir. As to the injury...?"  
  
"Tell him you don't know."  
  
"Very good. On another note, sir-- will you be getting out of bed anytime  
soon?"  
  
Bruce was silent, ignoring the question.  
  
"Begging pardon, sir," Alfred reiterated, in a tone that seemed to say he  
wasn't really begging any pardons at all, "but one must crawl before walking, or  
in this case--"  
  
"I'll do it when I'm damned well ready."  
  
Rather than retreating, Alfred advanced a step towards the bed. Bruce looked up  
at him, sharply. "Ahem. In that case, sir--" the butler put out a hand and  
dropped a light roll of sterilized gauze on the bed beside his master. "You can  
change your own 'damned' dressings."  
  
***  
  
Alfred wound the sterilized tape about Timothy's middle. His chest. His arms.  
His hands, his fingers, his neck. "Bet I look like a mummy," he joked weakly.  
  
Alfred tied off the last bit and pulled an oversized white shirt gently over  
the boy's head for warmth. "Nonsense, sir; you rather resemble Master Bruce when  
he had his first failures in the martial arts."  
  
But really, he looked like a frail white ghost, and even the untouched skin of  
his lower face had paled far beyond its usual whiteness. Timothy had not been a  
large boy to begin with, and as a young man he was equally slight, although  
nearly as tall as Bruce.  
  
"Actually," Alfred added wryly, "I'm afraid the master hasn't altogether gotten  
out of the habit of maiming himself even in the present tense."  
  
Timothy grinned. That was good to see, and Alfred thanked God that at least the  
boy's smile had been spared. It was his charm, that which endeared him instantly  
to sentimental old folks and women of all ages-- although the grin came seldom  
enough that he wasn't conscious of its magnetism.  
  
Then it twisted slightly, and dimmed. "Alfred," he said slowly, and the old man  
knew what was coming. He had prepared for it as best he could, staying off the  
questions until the boy was secure enough in his recovery that an upset wouldn't  
harm him, but how did one prepare to deal with something like... this? He leaned  
lightly against the counter along the wall, gazing at the dear boy. *His* dear  
boy. Perhaps Alfred Pennyworth was a servant, but he had cared for the rather  
driven band of vigilantes often and long enough that he posessed an ownership,  
of kinds.  
  
"Yes, dear Timothy," he said quietly.  
  
The boy's head turned to the voice, and the blinded eyes, still taped shut  
securely with cotton pads and white adhesive tape, stared at Alfred eerily,  
almost-- pleading. And simply because he knew the boy couldn't see, for a moment  
the butler closed his eyes.  
  
"Alfred," said Timothy, "I've been laying here I don't know how long, going in  
and out-- and all I can think is, what am I gonna tell Dad?"  
  
"Perhaps Master Bruce might be able to--"  
  
Timothy shook his head and put a hand out, flatly. "No-- I'm--" he paused a  
short moment, remembering. It seemed like he had lain on that bed too long, a  
lifetime, to still be only-- "--seventeen. I'm not a kid anymore. And--  
besides." His voice fell to a whisper. "You know it was... my-- choice."  
  
"Indeed, sir," Alfred said quietly, letting his eyes stare off across the  
floor. "You seem to be grown."  
  
"You haven't told--"  
  
"No, sir. I have not informed Master Bruce."  
  
Timothy sighed. "Well," he said. "I've prepared myself long enough, mentally.  
I'll just have to do it."  
  
Alfred swallowed with difficulty, and his hand fell gently over his mouth. For  
a moment, he could say nothing at all. It did not come out aloud, but in his  
mind he said, *I have been witness to many hard things... but none so terrible  
as this.*  
  
Timothy pressed his lips together, and they seemed for a moment to tremble. He  
seemed about to sneeze, and then did not. "Would-- would you come with me?" he  
asked, very quietly.  
  
Again, Alfred closed his eyes, this time bowing his head. "Of course, young  
sir," he said.  
  
On their way out of the house, upstairs, Timothy thought he heard a noise in  
the corridor. "Is that-- Bruce?" he asked.  
  
"No, sir," Alfred answered quietly. "I'm afraid the Master has--"  
  
"No," said Timothy quickly. "You don't have to explain. I-- I know he's a busy  
guy. It's okay." He stepped forward again, waiting expectantly for Alfred's  
guiding hand. "Let's-- just go."  
  
***  
  
Bruce was in bed five hours later when Alfred and Timothy returned. They passed  
the open door of the bedroom, as they had on the way out, when Timothy had heard  
him, and he had motioned to Alfred not to reveal his presence. This time Alfred  
had his arms about the boy, who was breathing raggedly, supporting him almost  
entirely.  
  
Bruce waited, and after a few minutes Alfred returned to him, alone.  
  
"What happened?" he asked.  
  
Alfred was solemn. He cleared his throat gravely and spoke in a low tone. "I  
took Timothy to see his father, sir, as you know. I was not in the room at the  
time, but-- I do believe Master Tim revealed everything."  
  
"Mm," grunted Bruce. He was about to return to his laptop, but Alfred went on,  
almost insistently.  
  
"As you know, sir, Jack Drake is not a strong man. I am afraid the news was--  
rather a shock to him. It was necessary to take him to the hospital."  
  
Bruce looked up, frowning slightly. "His condition?" he asked.  
  
"He's dead, sir."  
  
Bruce looked at the computer screen. He put his hands on either side of it,  
gripping tightly. Then, slowly, forcefully, he closed the screen onto the  
keypad. He pressed his hands to the smooth, flat surface and closed his eyes.  
"Where is he?" he asked.  
  
"His room. He's asked to be left alone." Alfred's eyes said that he had not  
departed willingly.  
  
Bruce rubbed a hand over his face, his eyes, as if weary of it all. His mouth  
opened, but wouldn't say the words. "Get-- it," he said finally.  
  
Alfred was too relieved to see that his master was finally acting like an adult  
to force it upon him. He went.  
  
Tim heard through the pillow when the door opened. He knew who it was. He  
fumbled, hands and feet, clumsy not only because of the blindness but because of  
the meds he was still taking, over the side of the bed and stumbled to the far  
wall, away from the door. His hands ran over the textured surface, going  
nowhere, merely pressing, praying, perhaps, that he might simply dissipate and  
flow through to the other side. Flow into nothingness.  
  
"Tim, I--"  
  
He sneezed. "It's not your fault," he said, interrupting. "It's mine... mine. I  
should've known, he wasn't strong enough--"  
  
"Timothy." Bruce paused. "We all make mistakes."  
  
"And you'd tell me honestly that if you were in my place, you wouldn't place  
full blame on yourself?"  
  
Bruce was silent.  
  
"No. No. Of course. You see? It was me..." His hands trembled, still feeling,  
touching the wall, and he inched along it, centimeter by centimeter, to the  
right. "My fault. My fault--"  
  
His voice was so soft that Bruce didn't wait for him to stop when he  
interrupted him, because it would have made no difference. "I can say nothing  
to-- make it better," he rumbled. "But whatever you need-- anything--"  
  
Tim spun, suddenly. "Where are you?" he demanded, panicked. "Bruce, where are  
you?"  
  
"Here; by the end of the bed."  
  
He shook his head, sightless white patches gazing oddly outward. "I didn't hear  
any footsteps. You didn't make--" he stopped. "Oh my God, no-- no, Bruce,  
please--" because he couldn't bear it, not after all this, if all of it were  
only for-- for-- this, back at the beginning, trapped, forever--  
  
Bruce's hands tighened on the wheels of the chair, his knuckles white. "It's--  
a temporary situation," he said. "Nothing serious. I'll be walking again within  
the week."  
  
"My God," murmured Timothy, almost to himself, in his own, private, dark little  
world-- "My God, I didn't know it was that bad--"  
  
"It's not. Don't concern yourself."  
  
He inched further along the wall. "Yeah... okay," he whispered, the responses  
coming out automatically, his thoughts away, panicked, screaming, somewhere else  
in the back of his mind. How could he live with it? How could he? How could he?!  
But the scream was locked away, tight, small, compressed, back in the back back  
back--  
  
"Is there-- anything you need?" asked Bruce. It was his parting tone. Uneasy,  
uncomfortable. Fading towards the door. "Alfred--?" he suggested, finally. Last  
ditch effort as he escaped.  
  
"No. I'm fine. Fine," murmured Timothy. "I'm fine." His hand, along the wall,  
swept up and down, trembling, and found a doorknob. He knew the door. He twisted  
the knob, eased the door open with shaking hands. He put one leg in. "Just--  
leave-- me-- alone--" he whispered. "I'll..." he slipped his body in with the  
leg. His hand reached out to pull the last crack shut. "--be fine." And he  
closed the closet door.  
  
It was small inside. Small and cramped and damp and warm. He sat down on the  
floor and drew his knees up gingerly to his chest. And softly, because he could  
not cry, he whimpered like a small, lost puppy.  
  
***  
  
"It's been three days, sir. Don't you think it's time we ought to do  
something...?"  
  
"He needs time. Space. So did I."  
  
Alfred looked as though that was exactly the reason he was suggesting some  
course of action. "I let you have it; whether or not that was what you needed is  
a matter still left up to question," he said curtly.  
  
Bruce returned the sharp gaze. Then he let out a short breath and reached for  
the cane at his side. "Call Allen," he said, and pushed himself to his feet.  
  
"Shall I direct him to the cave, sir, or...?" Alfred thought that perhaps the  
master was not yet thinking quite clearly.  
  
"No. Call him here."  
  
"But sir, your identity--"  
  
Bruce turned. "I don't care," he said. "Just call him." He started slowly,  
painfully across the room, ignoring the startled expression on the butler's  
face. By the time he got to the door, Alfred had already contacted the boy, and  
by the time he had let himself down with a sigh in the library chair, the young  
man was standing before him. Allen couldn't run, of course-- but he had a fast  
car. And he wasn't posessed of enough decorum to wait for Alfred to answer the  
door.  
  
"OhmygoshIcan'tbelieveit," he gushed. "You'reBatman?  
Imeanit'sokaybutIthoughtBruceWaynewasjustthislikeplayboykindaguythatTimhungoutwithtogetbabes,and--"  
  
"Shut up."  
  
Bart Allen blinked. "Yeah. Sorry," he said sheepishly, rubbing the back of his  
neck. Sometimes when he was excited he still got carried away. Forgot... But  
this--! "I mean-- y'know, wow." He saw Bruce's eyes narrow. "Um. Yeah. Anyway,"  
he said, suddenly nervous, "what's up?"  
  
"Timothy has been severely burned. He will probably be essentially blind for  
the remainder of his life. His father is dead."  
  
Bart blinked. He swallowed. "Oh my God," he whispered. He did a lightning count  
on his fingers. "I-- forgot--" he turned away quickly.  
  
"Forgot what?" Bruce (actually Batman) asked.  
  
"I-- nothing! Nothing," he said quickly, panicking.  
  
"*What?*" demanded Batman.  
  
Bart shrank back. "N-nothing!" he insisted. "It's-- nothing! C-can I just see  
Tim? Where is he?"  
  
The blood-curdling glower faded back into a displeased grimace. "Down the hall,  
fifth door on the right. He's in the closet."  
  
The young man frowned. "The cl--?" he started to ask, but stopped when he saw  
the look on Bruce's face. "Um... okay, I'll just go... over there... now..." he  
said, backing out of the room slowly. When he got to the door he turned and ran,  
normal speed.  
  
"You needn't have frightened the lad. Lord knows he's been through enough  
himself already." Alfred appeared suddenly from nowhere.  
  
Bruce didn't give him the courtesy of a glance. "Get me a blanket," he said.  
"And the paper."  
  
***  
  
Bart stopped outside of Tim's room, wheezing slightly, and glanced back down  
the hall, counting doors again just to make sure. Number five. He knocked  
lightly and then went in, getting no answer. Sure enough, the room was dark,  
unlighted, and when he reached for the switch, there was no one inside. "Hello?"  
he said, hesitantly. No answer. He stepped inside, stumbling lightly over feet  
that were still too large for his gangly teenage frame. He was glad he had  
turned the light on. It was eerie, even in Tim's bedroom. This whole house gave  
him the willies.  
  
Across the room, on the far wall, was another solid mahogany door, polished and  
inlaid with carved panels. He crossed the room, and knocked again, on this door.  
  
There was a low murmur from inside.  
  
"What?" he asked, too loudly.  
  
"I said go away!" Tim's voice shouted back, broken and thin.  
  
Bart's eyes got as round and liquid as a pair of silver dollars. Rob never  
sounded like that. Not unless it was really bad. Last time he had sounded like  
that was when they thought Nightwing was dead. "Rob?" he asked, in a small  
voice.  
  
"Go. Away!"  
  
Bart opened the door. Light flooded into the little closet, and his chin  
dropped. He stood holding it in his hands, staring down blankly at the mummified  
skeleton of what had once been his best friend. "R-Rob?" he stuttered.  
  
"God," moaned Tim, letting his sightless eyes drop into the palms of his hands.  
"Don't you ever listen to anyone?"  
  
In a zwip! Bart had closed the door behind them and was sitting in the dark,  
crouched next to Tim. "What happened?" he whispered, his voice wavering.  
  
Timothy shook his head. "Doesn't matter. *It* happened. It's done."  
  
"B-But-- you-- promised to tell me-- when it happened!" Bart objected. "Y-You  
said we had to stick together, and-- and we'd be okay--"  
  
"I changed my mind."  
  
Bart's lower lip stuck out, and in the dark he crossed his arms over his chest.  
"Dork," he pronounced.  
  
Timothy was silent for a moment. "Heh," he said at last.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Heh heh." Tim let out a soft chuckle.  
  
"What?!" demanded Bart, indignantly.  
  
He began to laugh softly.  
  
"Um... yeah!" agreed Bart, and grinned.  
  
"Guess... heh... it turns out... heh heh... I'm just like him... heh... after  
all." And then he moaned softly, and started to sneeze.  
  
Bart was confused. Very confused. "Blesshue?" he said, uncertainly. Timothy  
continued to sneeze. Bart stood up and pulled the little lightbulb chain hanging  
from the ceiling. He blinked, squinting, and saw that Tim was still crouched in  
the corner of the closet behind a rod of hanging clothes, hands covering his  
face. He was sneezing violently. "What are you...?" started Bart. "Your face  
looks like--" he stopped. "Oh," he said softly. "You *can't.*"  
  
He pulled the chain again and plunged them into darkness. Fumbling a little, he  
sat down again, feeling very sad. When Bart was sad, he liked to have hugs from  
girls. But there were no girls in the closet with them so he put his arms out  
and hugged Tim. That made him feel better, so he was about to let go, when Tim  
grabbed him, tight, clutching and sneezing. His chest was shaking, and it  
sounded like he was having a hard time breathing. "S'okay," said Bart. "I'll  
give you a hug." He guessed even Batman's guys needed hugs now and then. So he  
hugged Tim until the sneezing died away.  
  
"Thanks," sniffed Timothy after a while, pulling away a little.  
  
"It's my turn," said Bart. When he had to go to the hospital back then, and  
even now sometimes, Tim had always helped him, and come to visit him. He even  
saved his life now and then. But more than that, when Bart had been down in the  
dumps, feeling as useless and bumbling as anyone could get, it was Tim who had  
trusted him with his identity-- trusted him, Bart Allen. That he wouldn't tell.  
And he wouldn't. Not ever, not anyone. Tim's name was more important to him than  
anything else in the world. So now it was his turn to help Rob. "Wanna open the  
door?" he asked.  
  
"Sure."  
  
Bart opened the door and helped his friend stand up, pulling him out of the  
closet.  
  
Tim stood in the light and sniffed some more, wiping his nose on his sleeve.  
"What day is it?" he asked, finally.  
  
"Ummm. Monday?"  
  
"Oh."  
  
"Uh, how long were you in that closet, anyway?" he asked.  
  
"Three days."  
  
Bart pointed uneasily. "Your... um, stuff is kind of..."  
  
Tim put a bandaged hand to the lower half of his face, where he could feel it.  
The tape was peeling off now, probably all over his body. "Yeah," he said. "I  
guess I don't need it anymore." He started to peel it away, but only fumbled at  
it uselessly. His fingertips were scarred, numb, and he couldn't sense anything.  
Couldn't see it either, of course.  
  
"Wanmeeda help?" asked Bart.  
  
"Yeah, su-- thanks," ammended Timothy, as the deed was done. "Can I have my  
shirt back?"  
  
Bart looked at the shreds of material lying on the floor. "Uh..." he zipped to  
a dresser and pulled out one of Tim's old shirts. "Here," he said.  
  
"Thanks." Timothy could hear Bart's silence as he pulled the clean shirt over  
his head, as clear as if it were audible. "That bad, huh?" he asked flatly.  
  
"Yeah--Imeanno,ummm,whatImeantwasthatummm--"  
  
One side of Timothy's mouth tugged slightly upward. "It's okay, Bart," he said.  
"I've been anticipating this for a long time. I can handle it."  
  
Bart didn't think Tim had handled it so well back there in the closet. But if  
Rob said so... "Um, okay," he said, uneasily. "What're you gonna do now?"  
  
"I think... I'm gonna take the patches off my eyes."  
  
"Ohhh," said Bart.  
  
"Are the lights on or off?"  
  
"On."  
  
"Better turn-- yeah." Tim felt a faint breeze and guessed that the lights were  
probably off now. "I got the idea from, um, myself-- that I'm pretty sensetive  
to light. Help me here?"  
  
Bart stepped forward and had Tim's patches off in a blink. The tape was pretty  
gooey, though, and it stuck to his fingers. He pulled it off one hand, but it  
stuck to the other. Finally he bent down and stepped on it. That made it stick  
to his shoe, but he figured that eventually it would wear off so he stood up--  
and gasped.  
  
"What?" asked Tim. "It feels kinda weird, like-- cold..."  
  
Bart clamped both hands over his mouth and tried to do like Max was teaching  
him. Ten, nine, eight, seven... he made it to five. "They're red!" he said.  
  
Tim felt his eyelids with blunt fingertips. "--Red?"  
  
"Yeah, like *glowing* and stuff!" Bart took in a deep breath. "*Cool*..."  
  
"Glad you think so," Tim returned wryly. "Wanna trade?"  
  
"Oh. Sorry. Um, can you see anything?"  
  
Timothy blinked, and Bart saw the two glowing red slits of light blink out and  
on again. Tim turned in a slow circle. "I... dunno," he said, finally. "It's...  
a lot of hazy blobs, like when a camera flash blinds you. Try turning on--  
*agh!*" Tim clutched his eyes as light flooded the room. "Off, off!" They went  
off again, but he crouched near the ground, holding his eyes and moaning in  
pain.  
  
"You okay?" Bart asked, worried.  
  
He gritted his teeth and stood back up. "Yeah-- just-- really sensetive." He  
shook his head and sighed. "There should be a pair of sunglasses in the top  
drawer-- yeah." He took them as Bart pushed them into his hand. He didn't put  
them on immediately, but held them for a moment, looking down at nothing. "You  
know, these are prescription," he said. "Robin bears with contacts, but Tim  
Drake wears glasses..." he snorted lightly. "Guess I won't be dealing with  
either for a long time to come."  
  
"That's good, right?" asked Bart brightly.  
  
Tim chuckled softly and for a minute Bart was scared he was going to start  
sneezing again. "Yeah... it's good," he said, and finally slipped them on. "Try  
it again." He waited, eyes closed, for the lights to come on. Then, slowly, he  
squinted. And closed his eyes again. "Nope, not dark enough," he pronounced.  
"Guess I'll have to get some others. I'll just keep my eyes closed for now."  
There was lack of movement, and with Bart, there was always movement. "Bart?" he  
asked, and sighed.  
  
He waited for a few minutes, and at last he heard tires peeling out in the  
drive, and a few moments later, Bart's quick footsteps entered the room along  
with the sound of faintly wheezing breath. "Sorry," he said breathily. "Lady at  
the counter had a problem with the change."  
  
"Bart, you shouldn't--"  
  
"Hey, it's okay," Bart grinned, slipping the glasses onto Tim's face. "Perfect  
fit." He reached into a pocket and pulled out a small inhaler, taking a quick  
breath from it before he tucked it back away.  
  
Tim could feel dully that they were lined, forming a kind of seal around his  
face to keep out the light.  
  
"You look sleek," Bart said, admiring his work. "Definitely you."  
  
Tim smiled faintly. "Try the light," he said.  
  
"Um, it's already on."  
  
Timothy blinked into the nothingness. "Oh," he said.  
  
"Can you--?"  
  
"No," he said. "Just-- nothing." He turned his face up, to look directly at  
where he knew the light should be. And for a moment, a blur of white, then pain,  
and then nothing. Timothy sighed faintly.  
  
"Got something else for ya, too," said Bart, sounding rather pleased with  
himself. He held it out proudly.  
  
"Oh yeah?"  
  
Bart remembered and started forward, putting it into Tim's waiting hands.  
  
Timothy felt it. It was long and thin and collapsible, and he didn't have to  
see it to know it was white. "Well," he said. "Guess now is as good a time to  
start as any."  
  
"Let's go outside!" said Bart.  
  
"Sure." Tim brushed the back of one arm against the clean skin on his face, and  
felt the burn welts that were probably pink and rippled by now. He probably  
looked a fine picture-- how much of his hair had been burnt off, as well? "You  
know where Bruce is?" he asked.  
  
"Um, when I came in he was in the room with all the bookshelves."  
  
"That would be the library, Bart."  
  
"Right. He was in the library."  
  
Timothy bit the inside of his cheek. "There's a window to the garden in there.  
Better get me a long-sleeved shirt," he decided.  
  
Bart got it and decided to help him put it on, too. By the time Tim had fended  
him off and informed him that he could put on his own shirt, thankyouverymuch,  
it was inside out and backwards.  
  
"Sorry," Bart apologized meekly, watching as Tim patiently removed the garment  
and put it on correctly. On a sudden thought, he pulled out the collar of his  
own shirt and discovered he had made the same mistake earlier that day. He  
shrugged indifferently and let it be. You never knew when you might need a  
pocket on your back.  
  
"Hey, um, can I ask you a question?" he asked as they headed out the door.  
  
"As long as its not about jelly beans or crayons."  
  
"Oh," said Bart. He frowned. "Um, can I ask you another question?"  
  
"Go right ahead."  
  
"Like, in three days-- didn't you ever have to go to the bathroom?"  
  
***  
  
When Bart ambled into the library about an hour later, he had entered into one  
of his rare, completely lucid moments which had begun to appear more often now  
since his first hospitalization. In Bruce's opinion, they would never be often  
enough.  
  
"How is he?" he rumbled, when the boy entered. He was taller now than he had  
been when he had first come to the twentieth century, but it seemed almost as  
though he were aging more slowly now, perhaps to compensate for the dramatic  
acceleration of biological age from two to thirteen he had undergone some seven  
or eight years ago. Mentally, that would put him at about ten, eleven or twelve  
if you added his ability to learn at a super-fast rate.  
  
"Who?" asked Bart.  
  
Nine, Bruce ammended. Maybe eight. "Timothy. Drake."  
  
"Oh, yeah, Tim. He said I might as well call it a day because he was gonna be  
out there a while and it would just be boring and stuff." He ambled over to the  
bookshelf and ran his fingers over the spines of about a dozen priceless first  
editions.  
  
"You didn't answer my question." Bruce was about to repeat himself, irritantly,  
when the boy turned and leaned against a lower shelf, casually, eyeing him  
squarely.  
  
"Well, obviously he's not too happy, but Tim's tough, which he learned from  
someone or other along the way. I think he's more broken up about his dad than  
being blinded, or at least he thinks he ought to feel that way. But maybe you  
should ask him if you really wanna know. What happened, anyways?"  
  
Bruce blinked. "Max... has taught you well," he rumbled. "I'm-- impressed."  
  
Bart grinned. "You didn't answer *my* question," he said.  
  
The billionaire grunted and turned back to the paper that rested on his lap.  
"Doesn't matter. It was a split second decision he wouldn't have made if he had  
been thinking with his head instead of his gut."  
  
"What?!" Bart exclaimed, in spite of himself. "Are you *kidding* me? If you  
don't think Rob has been brooding over this moment since the instant he knew it  
was gonna happen, you're crazy!"  
  
Bruce's gaze narrowed suddenly. "What are you talking about?"  
  
Bart's eyes widened. "Uh-- oops," he said quietly, and made a sudden dash for  
the door.  
  
He didn't make it. He had made the mistake of cutting directly across the room,  
the quickest route for him-- but also near enough that Bruce, with the extension  
of the cane that had been lying beside his chair, could reach out and trip him  
neatly, sending him sprawling headlong across the floor. The older man hooked  
one large foot and dragged him back, kicking and thrashing, then, with a flick  
of his wrist, had the pointed end of the long stick pressed firmly against the  
boy's throat. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, Batman's hissing voice  
echoing across the room.  
  
Bart trembled under the cold, heartless stare. "N-Nothing!" he protested.  
  
The cane pressed harder. "Tell me or you won't be telling anyone anything for  
the next six weeks."  
  
"Eep," said Bart. The cane's hold slackened enough so he could talk.  
"Alongtimeagotheseoldguyswhowerereallyus," he drew in a long breath,  
"camebackintimeandtoldussomestuffthatwasgonnahappen,okay?" The cane went away,  
and Bart rolled over on his stomach, gasping and scrambling quickly for his  
inhaler. He took a deep breath.  
  
Bruce sat back. "Why wasn't I told?" he asked.  
  
"Well obviously I thought you *had* been," Bart said, still breathing quickly.  
He sat back on his hands and looked up at the looming figure dressed in a rich  
red bathrobe. "Rob never wanted to talk about it, so I assumed you knew." He  
paused and frowned slightly, looking down. "Hey, what happened to your--"  
  
Bruce jerked the bathrobe closed over his legs. "Nothing of your concern.  
Leave."  
  
Bart looked up. "Now?"  
  
Bruce eyed him coldly.  
  
Bart scooted backwards on his rear end. "Um, sure. Going. Right now. Bye!" With  
that, he jumped to his feet and was gone. But a second later, his head poked  
back in, a bright grin now donning his face. "Oh yeah," he said, "I forgot to  
say-- Max didn't teach me that concentration stuff. It was Tim."  
  
Bruce rumbled a low note of disapproval and turned his gaze to the window,  
where out in the garden Timothy was tapping aimlessly around the flowerbeds.  
After a moment he closed his eyes briefly, reached for his cane, and pushed  
himself to his feet. It was still painful, but getting better. He limped to the  
kitchen, where Alfred was washing dishes-- and Bart Allen was sitting at the  
table stuffing himself with cookies and milk. It took the boy a moment to  
realize who was standing in the doorway, but when he did, his eyes got wide  
again.  
  
Bruce pointed. "Out!" he said.  
  
"But Alfred said I could have--!" wailed the boy.  
  
"Out!"  
  
Bart got out.  
  
***   
  
When Tim found his way into the back hall, it was dark, although he guessed it  
only because it had gotten suddenly cooler.  
  
"Why wasn't I told?" Bruce's ominous tone filled the hall, and Tim jumped about  
a mile out of his shirt.  
  
"For Pete's sake--" he started.  
  
"Why?"  
  
Timothy was quiet. "So Bart spilled it."  
  
"He assumed I knew."  
  
Timothy was silent again. Maybe, he thought, that was what he had wanted Bart  
to do. He had been toeing off his shoes, which were muddied with dirt from  
outdoors, and was facing the wall. He put his hand against the paneling, as much  
for any psychological support it could offer as physical. "Think about it," he  
said quietly. "What would you have done, if you had known?"  
  
"That's completely irrelevant. You hid information from me which--"  
  
Timothy spun. "It's *completely* relevant! Don't you get it? You would have  
'fired' me, banned me from the cave, from being Robin--!"  
  
"Damn right I would have--"  
  
"And what, Bruce, what would that have accomplished? I came at the last  
minute-- if I hadn't gotten there just then, you would have died! Either that or  
it would have happened anyway, somehow-- it had to, don't you get it? Nothing  
else any of them-- us-- said has been avoided! It's fate!" he stopped, breathing  
heavily, and then sat down on the shoe bench, coughing up the black stuff that  
was still left in his lungs.  
  
"It wasn't your choice to make," Bruce said, finally.  
  
"What, because you're the boss? What about my life? It was my choice to become  
Robin, my choice to leave or not. And when I chose to become Robin, I did it  
with my whole life. You'd never have accepted anything less. What's that worth,  
anyway, if I back out because by some freak chance of fate I get to know in  
advance what my sacrifice is going to be? Every night when we go out we know it  
may be at the cost of our lives. We don't *know* that it will, but we have to  
prepare ourselves for that possibility. Well, I knew. So what? Should that have  
made a difference?" He waited, and a tense silence followed.  
  
"Yes," said Bruce.  
  
The next sound Timothy heard was the *thunk, thunk, tap* of Bruce's receding  
footsteps.  
  
***  
  
"For the record, sir, I would like to state my complete, utter, wholehearted  
disagreement-- nay, my *disgust*-- with the manner in which you are handling  
this entire situation to be noted."  
  
Bruce waved a curt gesture at the butler without taking his eyes off the  
manuscript he was examining. "So noted," he said absently.  
  
Alfred slammed his Master's plate down on the dinner table, hard enough that a  
sharp crack ran through the fragile heirloom china. He spun on his heel and  
tapped quickly to the door.  
  
Bruce looked after him, strangely. "Where are you going?" he asked, sharply.  
  
"I am *going,* sir, to make a poor attempt at repairing the damage you have  
done to young Timothy's golden soul." Alfred did not wait for a reply.  
  
Bruce sat in the empty silence of Alfred's departure. After a moment, he slid  
aside the manuscript and focused on the cracked plate. As he watched, the mass  
of food weighed down, slowly breaking the resistance of the china, and with a  
final crack the two halves snapped and the meal went oozing onto the table.  
  
After a moment he pushed to his feet, and went to bed.  
  
***  
  
Tim sat, curled up beneath the covers of his bed, secure under the comfort of  
Alfred's encircling arm. The old man sat against the headboard, one leg  
stretched out along the bed and the other hanging loosely over the side. On his  
lap was some ancient volume of something or other, Tim didn't know what; and  
after all it wasn't so much the story he cared about as the soft, rhythmic tone  
of Alfred's voice. It felt good just to close his eyes and rest his head against  
the old man's chest, listening to his crisp British accent vibrate faintly  
against his ear. Before he knew it, though, the story came to an end, and Alfred  
said something that interrupted the flow of his rhythm. "Sir?" he said after a  
moment, when Timothy didn't respond.  
  
"Hm?" he returned, drowsily, finding himself sleepier than he had imagined.  
  
"It's ten thirty, sir. Perhaps you ought to be getting off to sleep."  
  
"Oh," said Tim. He didn't know what time they had started at, so he didn't know  
how long the old man had been reading to him, but now that he thought about it,  
his voice sounded a bit weary. "Sorry, Alfred," he apologized. "Didn't mean to  
keep you up."  
  
"Not at all, sir. I shall be delighted to do the same tomorrow night, and the  
night after."  
  
Tim smiled and patted down his arm to his hand. "Good old Alfred. What would we  
do without you?"  
  
Alfred bent and kissed the boy's forehead, and then his cheek, to make sure he  
felt it. "Ah, the question, dear Timothy, is not what you should do, but what I  
should ever do without you."  
  
The boy grinned. "I'm sure you could find something to occupy your time. But  
thanks."  
  
"Good night, Timothy."  
  
"'Night, Alfred. You're the best."  
  
In the hall, the old man closed the door to Timothy's room quietly. Then he  
leaned against the wall and took a moment to wipe the tears from his weary old  
eyes.  
  
***  
  
Timothy woke in the middle of the night when a draft of icy air passed across  
his face. He blinked into damp nothingness and sat up. The chill passed again,  
and was familiar. "Hello?" he said quietly, uncertainly.  
  
"Tim," whispered the soft, airy tones of a child.  
  
He turned his face downward. "Suzie."  
  
"Bart came back and told us what had happened. I had to come." A hand coalesced  
and alighted, gently, cooly, upon the side of his face, turning his head towards  
her. "Oh, Tim," she said softly, using her other hand to brush back what was  
left of his singed black hair.  
  
"I'm sorry I didn't call," he apologize. "I just--"  
  
"I know. It's all right. Then this-- is what you never wanted to talk about?"  
  
"Yeah. Pretty much."  
  
"I'm sorry, Tim."  
  
"Yeah. Well-- thanks. Not your fault."  
  
"It's not anyone's fault."  
  
Tim turned his face away, but felt her cool form surround him, and knew that  
even if he struggled he could not get away from the ethereal tendrils of smoke.  
  
"Not even yours," she whispered in his ear.  
  
"Please go," he whispered, shivering now.  
  
She whisped back gently, until only her hands remained upon his face. "I will,  
if you want. But promise me you aren't going to do something you'll regret, all  
right, Tim?"  
  
He opened his eyes then, searching for her in the darkness, wanting to see the  
faintly glowing appirition of her small face just once more-- but there was only  
blackness; eyes open or shut, it mattered not. "No," he said. "I won't. I can  
promise that."  
  
"Thank you." Her voice seemed to smile, sadly, and he felt her cool lips touch  
his.  
  
"Suzie--" he began to plead. "I told you--"  
  
"I know," she whispered, and the lips were gone. There was a silence, and when  
she spoke again it was from far away. "Peter Pan knows what he is... but  
sometimes he wishes for more."  
  
And when Tim's lips formed the word "wait--" he knew she was already gone.  
  
***  
  
Bruce came late to the breakfast table, and it was immediately apparent to  
Alfred, who had known his every hour since the day of his birth, that he had  
spent a miserable, sleepless night. Alfred was glad. "Eggs, sir?" he said, just  
loud enough to irritate ears ringing with a lack of sleep.  
  
"Anything-- fine." He grunted and sat down across from Tim, who was just  
learning to eat by the "clock" on his plate. At the moment he was trying to  
remember where the sausages had been. For one brief moment-- very brief-- a  
benefit to being blind was made clear to him. He ignored Bruce, and it was easy,  
because he didn't have to look at him, and all he had to do was pretend he  
hadn't heard him.  
  
It was also, strangely, a bit easier for Bruce, who watched the boy openly as  
he fumbled at his food. He could wait until Alfred stepped from the room to  
answer an insistent phone to speak. "I hadn't intended to be so-- blunt--  
yesterday," he rumbled lowly. "I--"  
  
Timothy realized that he was hedging on an apology. "Look, don't worry about  
it, it's fine, okay?"  
  
"Tim, I--"  
  
"I said it's okay!" Tim rose, knocking back his chair, and stumbled out of the  
room.  
  
Alfred came back with a little pad of paper in hand, scribbling down the  
message. He stopped suddenly and looked about, assessing the situation. "Well--  
a fine mess you made of that one, sir," he pronounced.  
  
Bruce muttered something unintelligable under his breath.  
  
"Pardon, sir? I didn't quite catch that."  
  
A heavy fist came down on the table, jarring the candlesticks in the  
centerpiece. "I was *attempting* to apologize," he growled.  
  
Alfred cleared his throat lightly. "Perhaps your senses could do with a little  
clarification, sir, if I don't overstep my bounds--"  
  
Bruce rolled his eyes upward to the butler's proper visage. "Alfred," he said.  
"At this point in my life, what is it that makes you think there are still  
bounds *to* overstep?"  
  
"Ahem. Well. Clarification, then." Alfred began to clear the table, and spoke  
primly, certainly, as he did so. "Timothy does not desire an apology, sir. He  
fully expected you to react in this manner, just as he expected everything else  
you have done up to this point. You are a very predictable soul, if I-- ahem, as  
I *do* say, sir. Nor did he take any action at any point in this lamentable  
history simply because he believed that all of it was fate."  
  
"But--"  
  
"Shut up and listen, sir. Thank you." Alfred deposited the last of the dirty  
plates in the sink and left them to soak. For this last, he turned around and  
leaned casually back against the counter, hands over the lip of the sink. "He  
had only one purpose in any action he took, sir, then and now-- and that is for  
*your* sake."  
  
"My--?"  
  
"For *you,* sir, your person. Everything he does is for you. You are his hero,  
his idol, his father-figure, his friend, his mentor, his guide-- you are  
*everything* to him, and he has only attempted to do that which he believes you  
would do for him. Now; have I made the point sufficiently clear? Sir? --Sir?"  
  
But Bruce's gaze had turned inward, and for all purposes Alfred had disappeared  
completely from the landscape of his mind. After several long minutes, he groped  
blindly for his cane, and stood. He passed Alfred and went to the entryway,  
where, for another moment, he paused, and glanced back over one shoulder. "I  
want him in the library tonight at six. See that he comes."  
  
***  
  
Although he could not see it, when Alfred led Tim into the library, Bruce was  
waiting silently, framed darkly by the sunset out the tall west window. He said  
nothing, but watched silently as the old man whispered a few words to the boy,  
showing him by guiding his hand where the overstuffed chair was behind him, and  
then quietly retreating. And for a minute or two after the old man was gone, he  
was silent, watching the boy as he stood in his high-collared shirt, blind and  
forever unaware of the horror that was now his face, and the gaping stares that  
would follow him for the rest of his life. Thank God for small mercies.  
  
"Sit down," he said finally, lowly, and the boy jerked, startled, but fumbled  
for his chair and obeyed. Bruce leaned on the cane and took a painful step  
forward; it was the end of the day, and he was sore and weary. "I want you to  
listen," he said. "Do you understand?"  
  
He bit his lip and nodded. "Yes," he said quietly.  
  
Bruce turned back to the window, looking out at the sunset over the sea. "You  
know I'm not good at this," he said, roughly, slowly. "But I need-- *want* to--  
thank you, Timothy. For--" he stopped, swallowing. "For saving my--"  
  
"I'm leaving."  
  
Bruce turned, and the boy stood, suddenly. "What?"  
  
There was firmness, decision in his tone. "I'm leaving. I don't know how long.  
Maybe forever."  
  
"Tim--"  
  
He shook his head. "No, Bruce. I have to. I can't stay here, knowing--  
feeling-- how every time you look at me, you think of what I did for you, how  
you *owe* me, or something, as if you haven't already saved my life more times  
than I can count. I-- don't want to do that to you. If I can go, you can make  
yourself forget-- I know you will, because you can make yourself forget about  
Jason, most of the time. And--" his voice, suddenly, dropped to a whisper. "*I*  
can't stay here, and hear in your voice that-- that you wish I *hadn't* saved  
you."  
  
There was silence.  
  
"Where will you go?"  
  
"Alfred says one of the best schools for the blind in the world is in northern  
France. I guess I'll start there."  
  
"I-- wish you luck."  
  
Timothy seemed strangely gathered, resolute. "Same to you, Bruce-- all the luck  
in the world." He turned, and stepped carefully across the floor. Halfway to the  
door, he stopped, but didn't turn, fearing to lose his bearing. "If someone  
else-- comes along," he said, sounding a bit less sure than he had a moment  
before, "it's okay. I'm not Robin anymore, and I hope you can find someone who  
loves the job-- as much as I did."  
  
With that, he sneezed lightly and crossed the rest of the way to the door.  
"Good-bye, Bruce," he said, and was gone.  
  
Batman stood for a long while in the darkening night, gazing at the emptiness  
where once his partner had been, a faintly startled expression upon his chiseled  
face.  
  
***  
  
"What are you doing?" Bruce asked the next morning, when Alfred came to  
breakfast accompanied by his suitcase.  
  
"I intend to accompany Timothy, sir. I believe he needs my services more than  
you seem to."  
  
Bruce thought that perhaps 'deserves' was a better word to use.  
  
But Timothy would have none of it. "Just take me to the airport, Alfred. I'll  
be fine."  
  
"But sir--" the old man objected for the last time, when they arrived outside  
the boarding gate.  
  
Tim smiled his brilliant boy's smile and grasped the old man's arm reassuringly  
with newly gloved fingers. "I'll be fine, Alfred. I think I'm probably the  
best-equipped blind guy on the planet, and the rest of them seem to survive all  
right. Besides, I'll be picking up chicks along the way with Dick's biker look."  
His grin widened and he adjusted his duds, straightening the "dashing" scarf  
over the collar of his leather jacket and yanking the baseball hat down close to  
his darkened sunglasses. "I think I like it, after all."  
  
Alfred persisted in readjusting the little tweaks, if only for something to  
keep his hands busy. "I wish you would allow me--"  
  
"Alfred," Tim explained gently, "I have a lot to learn, and I can't learn it if  
I have you there to help me at every turn." The grin tugged at the corner of his  
mouth again. "I can't have you catching me every time I fall, now can I?"  
  
"I don't see why not, sir," Alfred replied curtly.  
  
"Oh, yes you do, and you know it. But beyond that, Alfred, if you really want  
to help--" he paused, sobering. "Stay here with Bruce. He needs you. More than I  
ever will."  
  
"Hanging him would be doing him a service, sir," Alfred pronounced.  
  
"Alfred," Tim admonished. "Be nice."  
  
"Very well. But-- do call, sir, please-- frequently."  
  
"Every night, if you don't mind the time difference."  
  
Alfred was forced to mop his eyes. "I shan't be sleeping anyway, sir, so it  
really matters very little."  
  
Tim clutched the old man in a sudden, violent hug. "Oh, Alfred," he said. "I  
wish you could come. Now-- t-take care of him, all right?" He paused, and then  
whispered quietly into the old man's ear. "I have to go now-- but I'll come  
back. Someday." And he turned, and was gone into the crowd boarding the  
airplane. The last the old man glimpsed of him was a gloved hand above the heads  
of the crowd, waving a final good-bye.  
  
For perhaps the second time in his life, Alfred Pennyworth sat down where he  
was, put his head in his hands, and began to weep.  
  
  
FOUR YEARS LATER  
  
He remembered that fall in Gotham was always the most beautiful time of year.  
Timothy Drake keyed down the back window of the limousine and smelled the burnt  
autumn air, feeling the brisk wind across his face. He switched his finger from  
the window to the intercom. "Let's stop for lunch," he told the driver.  
"Somewhere nice."  
  
The driver declined to join him, having brought along a sack lunch and a book  
of his own, so Drake was left out on the sidewalk in front of a place by the  
name of "G.G.'s," evidently the hottest new place in town. He waited a moment,  
listening carefully above the hum of traffic behind him, and finally followed  
the flow of padestrians into the front door. He waited as other patrons were  
shuffled off to their respective tables, and at last he seemed to be the only  
one standing just inside the door. He stepped forward slightly.  
  
"Do you have a reservation, sir?" The voice was clearly directed at him.  
Female, about five foot four.  
  
"No," he admitted. "Do I need one?"  
  
"Oh-- no, that's fine. How many?"  
  
"Just me."  
  
"Perfect. This way."  
  
Drake followed the quick footsteps across the floor, around tables and behind  
what he guessed was a center bar. For a moment he wondered why there hadn't been  
the usual awkwardness over who was leading who-- but then he realized that his  
stick was still folded in his pocket, unused. Faintly, he smiled.  
  
The waitress stopped, her heels clicking sharply. "And-- right here. I hope  
this is all right?"  
  
He put a hand out and got lucky, coming immediately in contact with the back of  
the seat, which turned out to be a booth. He slid in. "It's fine," he said,  
taking off his hat and tossing it onto the bench opposite him.  
  
There was a short, very brief pause as the woman took in the lacerated upper  
brow, only partially covered by his thick black hair. "Your server will be  
around in a moment," she prompted herself to say finally. "Have a nice meal!"  
The heels clicked away.  
  
Drake sat back, unperturbed, and checked the little raised dots on his  
wristwatch. Alfred wasn't expecting him before dark; perhaps he wouldn't go  
directly to the Manor. Now that he was back, he found he wanted to scout around  
a bit, see what had changed while he was gone. Besides that, if he didn't get in  
before Bruce went out, he and Alfred would have the whole night to chat over a  
pot of tea before anything else disturbed them.  
  
He put his gloved hands out on the table and found the menu the waitress had  
left for him, and again a small, half-amused, nearly wistful smile fell across  
the lower half of his face.  
  
"Made up your mind yet?" a cheery voice asked. In his thoughts, he hadn't even  
realized she had come upon him. A different woman this time, and he couldn't  
quite tell her height while sitting down. He turned his face up and smiled at  
her.  
  
"Actually," he said, holding up the menu with a half-smile, "I don't think your  
seater noticed, but I'm quite blind."  
  
"Oh, dear!" she exclaimed, "I'm terribly sorry, really--" she covered her  
mouth. "I'm sorry, that's really not funny. Shall I read it for you?"  
  
He grinned now. "Actually it's a bit of a compliment. I make it a game to try  
and fool people now and then."  
  
She laughed softly, in spite of herself. "Don't feel too proud; Marie's a good  
girl, but she's not the sharpest knife in the block, if you know what I mean."  
She took the menu. "Here, I'll give it to you."  
  
Drake put hand out as she started to reel off the menu. "It's okay," he said.  
"What do you recommend? And what kind of food do you serve here, anyway?"  
  
"French, mesquite, and Chinese."  
  
"Interesting combo."  
  
Her voice smiled. "I like spices."  
  
"So-- this is your place?"  
  
"Yep. I'm 'the' G.G."  
  
He nodded. "Timothy Drake. Surprise me, G.G."  
  
"That I will. You like it hot or extra spicy?"  
  
"Is there a difference?"  
  
"Not really. Back in a few."  
  
Drake sat back in his corner booth, smiling privately. She was back, sooner  
than he had expected, and plunked a solid platter down in front of him. "Chow  
mein at three, chicken at six, souflees for dessert at eleven. Plus a few  
mystery items in between."  
  
"I feel like I'm back in the lunch line at high school," he joked lightly.  
"But-- you know the drill."  
  
"My mother died of a brain tumor in ninety three. It blinded her eight months  
before that."  
  
"I'm sorry."  
  
"It's all right." She paused. "Mind if I--?"  
  
He gestured. "Go ahead. Watch out for the hat." She slid into the seat across  
from him, setting the hat carefully on the inside corner of the table.  
  
"Anyway, you look like you have a lot more to be sorry over than I do."  
  
"Hm," murmured Drake, turning his face down to his meal. "Spicy."  
  
"Toldja so."  
  
"Mm-- *spicy!*"  
  
"Water on the left, milk on the right."  
  
Drake took a long gulp of milk. "You weren't kidding," he said.  
  
She grinned. "Oh, I rarely do. That accent-- where are you from?"  
  
It was his turn to chuckle lightly. "Here, actually. Born and raised in  
Gotham's upper west. I've been touring Europe for the past few years, though, so  
I've probably picked it up here and there."  
  
"Ah!" she exclaimed, seeing his smile. "I remember you now. During the quake,  
the--"  
  
"Poster boy, yes." He flushed slightly. "I can't believe you-- recognized me."  
  
"My family moved out, and I was devastated. Told them all they were traitors. I  
think I had a poster of you on my wall."  
  
"Dear God."  
  
She laughed, a wholesome, musical sound. "It's not so bad. When did you get  
in-- back to Gotham, I mean?"  
  
"I just flew in this morning."  
  
"Welcome back. I imagine things have changed."  
  
"Well, I know this place wasn't here, or I would have come before now."  
  
"Just opened up in May."  
  
"I haven't had a chance to hear of anything else. Care to fill me in?"  
  
"What's your pleasure? I know all the gossip. And if you're from the west  
side..."  
  
He laughed. "I may be a rich boy, but I'm no gossip." He paused. "What's the  
Batman been up to lately? Or rather, what have the papers been saying he's up  
to?"  
  
"You really have been gone awhile, haven't you?"  
  
Drake frowned. *Now* what had Bruce gone and done--?  
  
"Batman hasn't been seen for years now, going on, oh... four or five, seems  
like. Disappeared into whatever cave he flew out of in the first place, I guess,  
poor soul."  
  
Drake was silent, stunned. "Are-- are you serious?" he asked, incredulously.  
  
"Well-- yeah. It is kinda weird, now that I think about it. He's been around  
since before I was born..."  
  
"Yeah," said Drake faintly. "...Me too."  
  
***  
  
Drake's natural impulse was to go immediately to Wayne Manor, to demand to know  
exactly what the hell had happened, but his better sense told him to wait, to  
hold off-- stick with the original plan. It would probably be better to see  
Alfred first anyway, no matter what the situation. He finished off his lunch  
with G.G. and promised to stop in again soon, then directed the chouffeur to one  
of the up-scale malls in the diamond district to purchase a new pair of  
sunglasses. He figured the ones he was wearing were getting pretty scuffed up at  
this point, and it never hurt to have extras on hand.  
  
At sundown, he had the choffeur drop him at the bottom of the long hill. He had  
climbed it so many times he hardly needed the slender black cane he now used,  
but he took it out anyway in case recent rains had sent any debris down the  
hill. Everything smelt moist and fragrant and old. The same as it always had.  
  
He used the knocker on the door and waited.  
  
It opened. "Oh, sir--!" exclaimed Alfred, "thank goodness you've made it-- I  
was beginning to worry-- I called the service and they said--"  
  
He stepped inside, shrugging off his heavy black trenchcoat and unraveling his  
dark scarf into the old man's waiting arms. "I'm here, Alfred. It's all right."  
But the old man continued to overflow with worry and relief, bustling here and  
there with the small suitcase he carried, taking his cane and then giving it  
back again with an apology-- finally, Drake reached out and grasped him by the  
arm. "Alfred," he said, when he was certain he had the old man's attention.  
"It's good to be home."  
  
Alfred stopped, silent for a moment, and then at once they were both clasped in  
one another's arms, pounding backs firmly, solidly, for in all their long  
conversations across continents there was nothing either had wanted so much as a  
firm hand to shake, a shoulder to pat. "Oh, sir," said Alfred, getting suddenly  
teary-eyed, although he willed himself not to overflow, "it's so good to have  
you back-- so good. Please. Please, come in."  
  
Drake allowed him to lead him down the hall and into the library, where he sat  
him before a blazing fire. He toed off his shoes and stretched out his legs,  
sagging down in the stiff-backed old chair. He had grown taller in his absence,  
much taller, and the plane ride had not been a comfortable one, even though he'd  
taken first class. Alfred disappeared and came back-- as he knew he would-- with  
a pot of tea that had probably been boiling all afternoon in anticipation of his  
arrival. He accepted a cup and sipped it gingerly.  
  
"There's nothing else in the world like a cup of your tea, Alfred," he said,  
just to hear the silence of the old man's pleasure.  
  
A moment later the butler drew up a second chair and sat opposite Timothy in  
front of the fire. Together, they sat in a comfortable silence that spanned  
years and hearts. "My dear boy has become a man now," Alfred said, finally.  
  
"Oh," said Drake, "maybe on the outside. But I'm still the same as I always  
was, I guess."  
  
"Same heart," Alfred agreed, and smiled. "Larger mind."  
  
Drake laughed. "I would hope so," he said. "As long as I've been in school, I  
ought to have learned something or other."  
  
They were silent again, and the fire crackled. Alfred moved to stir it a bit  
with the poker.  
  
"I heard something today, Alfred."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Someone told me Batman hasn't been seen in over four years."  
  
Silence.  
  
"Is it true?"  
  
Alfred sipped his tea. "It's true."  
  
Drake didn't feel betrayed, that Alfred had never said anything. They didn't  
talk about Bruce, not really, and he understood that Alfred was somehow bound to  
do whatever the master wished of him. Drake understood, because he too was under  
the same contract. Or had been. "Where is he?" he asked instead.  
  
"At the moment, the master is sleeping in his room."  
  
Drake stood.  
  
"Sir, I doubt if you'll be able to wake him-- he's taken--" but the young man  
was already gone. "--sedatives..."  
  
***  
  
Drake had left his cane behind at the fire, assuming-- quite correctly-- that  
nothing inside the walls of Wayne Manor had changed since he was gone. Nothing  
ever changed, here. He made it to the closed double doors of Bruce's bedroom  
suite easily, and was about to knock when he heard heavy snoring from within.  
  
He had to grin. Bruce? Snoring? Carefully, he turned the knob and pushed the  
door inward. He wasn't really sure what he wanted to do-- not sneak up on him,  
really, but just-- listen to him, in the dark. Listen to him sleep.  
  
*I've missed you, old man.*  
  
Drake crept towards the snoring sounds, which reverberated loudly through the  
entire cavern of a room. He was nearly to the bed when his toe hit something,  
lying on the floor. He stopped, stooped, and started to push it out of the way--  
and froze.  
  
His hand, independent of the rest of his body, felt the object, once, again. He  
picked it up-- and then he dropped it, and fled from the room.  
  
By the time he retured to the library his breathing was back to normal, and he  
entered in at a steady pace. He went to the chair and sat down across from  
Alfred, who was still there, waiting. His hands rested firmly on the arms of the  
chair.  
  
"It happened-- when I--?" he gestured numbly to his eyes, hidden securely  
behind a pair of dark lenses.  
  
"Yes," said Alfred quietly.  
  
"He-- but he-- Batman-- wouldn't have let that stop--"  
  
"*Both* legs, sir."  
  
Drake swallowed thickly. "Both?" he whispered.  
  
"The right at the knee, the left at mid-thigh. I had to amputate; there wasn't  
enough left of either to save."  
  
The young man put his head in his hands. "Oh my God," he whispered. "Why-- why  
didn't he tell me?"  
  
"The master's reasons are his own, sir, but-- I suspect he wanted to prevent  
you from feeling any sense of guilt over his-- loss. After what you had  
sacrificed--"  
  
Drake moaned softly. "That's why, then," he said lowly.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"I knew-- afterwards, I could hear it in his voice. He wished I had let him  
die. Oh, God, I didn't know--"  
  
"You couldn't have, sir-- *you* are not to blame."  
  
They sat in silence a little longer, and when Drake put the cup to his lips the  
tea was cold. "Is my room--?" he started to ask.  
  
"The same as you left it, sir. Although I have picked up a bit, and laundered  
your dirty clothes."  
  
He smiled, a little sadly. "Thanks, Alfred. I doubt they'll fit anymore, but...  
I'm glad you did."  
  
"You have filled in quite nicely sir. Compliments on your physique, if I may."  
  
Drake laughed. "Better not, Alfred. That sounds pretty bad."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Nevermind. Sleep well, old friend."  
  
It occured to Alfred, as the boy rounded the corner out of sight, how very much  
he had, in that last remark, sounded like the master.  
  
***  
  
Drake glanced up when Bruce stopped in the doorway to the kitchen the next  
morning; a habitual movement, but one he hadn't thought to consciously  
eliminate, even though he didn't expect to see anything, because it made others  
more comfortable in his presence. Carefully, he set down his fork and let his  
hands come to rest on the edge of the table. "Good morning, Bruce," he said, to  
the beat of Alfred's quickly retreating footsteps.  
  
There was another brief silence, and then he grunted, rubbed the side of his  
unshaven face with one hand, and took a step forward. He knew and Drake knew  
that he knew that the younger man had heard the faint tap of the cane against  
the floor, the uneven footstep.  
  
"Looks like I wasn't the only one hiding something," Drake said, not to be  
cruel, but pointedly. It was as if it were merely the morning after his  
departure, as though he had never left at all. Never been gone, never learnt or  
experienced anything, as though he were back at square one, all over again-- but  
no.  
  
It wasn't the same. Timothy Drake was Timothy Drake now. Once Robin, but no  
more. He no longer felt like there was anything he needed from Bruce, in the  
emotional sense. He was a grown man.  
  
He waited, and after another moment Bruce came forward and sat down across from  
him, on one end of the long kitchen table, the distance stretching between them  
so that Drake was almost hearing his echo against the stainless steel  
appliances, rather than his voice itself.  
  
"I didn't want you to--" Bruce paused.  
  
"I know. I understand."  
  
"Alfred--"  
  
"--knows all of us better than we know ourselves."  
  
"Yes," Bruce sighed roughly, glad to have it over with. Glad not to have to say  
it all.  
  
It was alright. Drake hadn't come back to get anything out of Bruce, to make  
him suffer. He understood. So he spoke, relieving him fully of any of the burden  
of conversation between them. "I'm glad I went," he said. "I needed to, and it  
was good for me. I won't regret it. But I knew I had to come back. When I got on  
the plane, I didn't know why, exactly, just that I did. But last night I did a  
lot of thinking. And now I know."  
  
He waited for a moment, just in case Bruce wanted to jump in with anything, but  
he didn't. He hadn't expected he would, but he wanted to offer the opportunity.  
He went on.  
  
"I can see now," he said. "Not much, but enough-- in the dark. I'm sure you  
have lenses that can enhance that. I haven't let my training go to waste,  
either. I've learned more, where I could. Much more." He paused. "I want to be  
Batman."  
  
The words hung in the warm, yeasty kitchen air.  
  
"I can't let you do that," said Bruce, finally.  
  
"I'm not a child anymore," Drake said. "I haven't been a child for a long time.  
I don't want it to be the way it was. I know what I'm doing-- I'm competent. I  
won't be your student anymore." He stood, and moved forward, stepping towards  
the other end of the table. "I want to be your partner, Bruce. An ally--" he  
pulled out the chair next to Bruce and sat down. "A friend."  
  
Silence again.  
  
"I-- don't know if I can-- do that," Bruce said, slowly.  
  
"It's not as hard as you think. Or maybe it is. The least you can do is try."  
He put a hand out. "Whaddya say, Bruce? Friends?" He waited. And finally,  
slowly, the enormous, powerful hand slipped into his. They shook firmly, and  
then parted.  
  
"Friends," said Bruce, quietly.  
  
  
TWO MONTHS LATER  
  
Jim Gordon stepped out onto the snow-covered roof with his gun pulled. He  
didn't exactly know what was going on, but even if it was what he thought, one  
couldn't be too careful. "All right," he called curtly into the night, "wherever  
you are, come out-- it's not funny, and if you wait any longer it's going to  
cost you your sheild."  
  
That was a threat to make any cop shudder in his boots, but after a moment of  
absolute stillness, nothing happened. Gordon swore under his breath. "All  
right," he started again, "come out with your hands up and we can talk about a  
deal." He crunched forward one step into the snow. Still nothing.  
  
Carefully, he circled each of the protruding vents on the roof, checking every  
possible hiding spot on top of the stationhouse. Still nothing. He sighed and  
let the gun drop loosely to his side, walked to the door and called wearily down  
the stairs. "Don't bother, Montoya," he said. "There's no one up here." He  
buckled the gun back into its holster and let his ragged beige rain jacket droop  
back to hide it. With an irritant grunt and another sigh he crossed the roof to  
switch off the Batsignal. It wasn't funny, he thought. Not funny at all. And he  
would find the culprit. And whoever it was would be out a Christmas bonus this  
year, so help him God-- "Dammit!" he nearly shouted, his hand on the breaker.  
"Who the hell are you?!"  
  
The dark figure stepped out of the shadows and half into the moonlight.  
  
"Oh my God," whispered Gordon.  
  
"I'm Robin," rasped the figure in black. And the hard line of a mouth flashed a  
sudden, brilliant grin. "--Or I used to be."  
  
The End  
  
  
Thanks for reading! If you liked this story (or even if you didn't) please take  
a little time to write a review! It's helpful for me as a writer and is also  
considered in some sense a form of payment, since I don't get a dime for any of  
this. ;) --Haydee  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



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